drunken spittles of brian lynch, derek doublin, and ray prewitt. featuring the dirtiest leprachaun, casey scott and senor mudking russell kirschner although we are not sure where he went.

Wednesday, April 14, 2004

i squinted up with half grin,

like a sandwich nip, tender bite, mostly tear. "he's not from here," heard my ears, my eyes the jealous blur. "he's from there." my instinct assured where she was pointing but wished it was towards space or for least sanity, the moon. fuck the moon. 'space', i thought with rippled thought thinking. "i'm going to call the police." she said calmly as if to get pizza delivered. i squinted my eyes, not in a wince, but to cogitate my my future. my my.

"i am the police," he said as if delivering said pizza. her eye got wide as pizza, the other blocked by an astringent wipie. "so much pizza," said my brain into itself. "he's technically on your property," his leaned-in eye going sized olive to pepperoni whilst nudging my fingers all the wayst from the sidewalk onto her condo patch. "those perriwinkles cost something."

"that is why i knocked. i can't do anything unless you complain," he nudged. "I Do Complain," blurt her sortof. and off to jail i went, still suffering my tortilla chip throat anxiety passout. where's the pill for that?